of gray metal which looked freshly painted. Sports posters and banners festooned the walls. The room was immaculate, almost austere in its neatness.
“He’d kill me if he knew I was showing anyone his inner sanctum.” There was warmth in Val’s husky voice. “I create such havoc wherever I go; I think he’s overcompensated by being a neat freak. This is my room, Carrie. It wasn’t meant to be a bedroom, but it’s good enough.”
The narrow room, which was surely meant to be a closet or for storage, was filled entirely by a twin bed and a two-drawer nightstand with a gooseneck lamp, and by canvases that sat on the floor along the walls.
Carolyn walked back into the living room with Val and stood beside the worktable. “I like your house.” Seeing Val’s amused smile she protested, “I really do. It has a nice feeling, a warmth. A…comfort. A casualness.”
“Casual we are,” Val said cheerfully. “I’ll show you the work I have here, which isn’t much. Mostly work that’s drying or that doesn’t fit in with what Susan’s showing right now.” Carefully she took the canvas leaning against the box on the table and placed it along the wall.
“Can you tell me what that one’s going to be?” Carolyn eyed faint jagged lines vaguely suggesting intricacy, the tones sand colored.
“It’s one of a series of figurative paintings I’m doing right now. Neal and I took a trip into the Mojave and found just wonderful things. This one’s a fascinating plant, it looks like green-red mist on the desert sand. The tiny flowers and fine tracery of stems make me think of the human body with its connections of veins and arteries and blood vessels—the sand holding it could be human skin. I’m laying film over film—I’m looking for an opalescent glowing effect and I want the brush strokes to show. It’s still taking shape in my head and very interesting to think about. I can’t do anything more till it dries.”
“I see,” Carolyn said. Until this moment she had thought it possible that Paul was right—Val Hunter might be a dilettante. She said, “I thought all painters used an easel.”
“Never had one. A box on a table works perfectly well as long as it holds the canvas still and you have the best light on your work. I get good strong morning light through this window—it’s the best kind. Besides, any extra money, there are always so many other things more important…Neal’s been wanting to go to day camp every year and I’ve never had the money till now.” She shrugged. “I’ve been painting this way for years. He’s a boy only once.”
Carolyn surveyed the jumble of supplies on the table. “Looking at a painting, you never imagine all the things an artist has to buy. Canvas, paint, brushes, a palette—”
“No palette,” Val interrupted. “This is my version.” She reached to the end of the table under paint-stained cloths and unerringly fished out a piece of plate glass with beveled edges, the underside painted white. “I just scrape it off when I’m finished. It works beautifully, I’d never have any other kind. And except for watercolors I buy the basic ingredients and make my own paints. I really prefer to now. But there are a thousand other things you always need. I use a lot of sketch pads and good pencils; I do a lot of sketches to make color notes. And frames and turpentine and varnish. I sometimes use a palette knife—that means quantities of paint that would put a house painter to shame.” Carolyn picked up several tubes of color and examined them curiously.
“I’m still learning things about color,” Val said. “Different approaches, techniques, ways of emphasis. To this day, as well as I’ve learned the discipline of preparation and concentrating fully on a concept, sometimes an entirely new idea takes over and I have to begin all over again. And starting over costs money and time. Quality materials are so very expensive…not like when I was first learning
“He’d kill me if he knew I was showing anyone his inner sanctum.” There was warmth in Val’s husky voice. “I create such havoc wherever I go; I think he’s overcompensated by being a neat freak. This is my room, Carrie. It wasn’t meant to be a bedroom, but it’s good enough.”
The narrow room, which was surely meant to be a closet or for storage, was filled entirely by a twin bed and a two-drawer nightstand with a gooseneck lamp, and by canvases that sat on the floor along the walls.
Carolyn walked back into the living room with Val and stood beside the worktable. “I like your house.” Seeing Val’s amused smile she protested, “I really do. It has a nice feeling, a warmth. A…comfort. A casualness.”
“Casual we are,” Val said cheerfully. “I’ll show you the work I have here, which isn’t much. Mostly work that’s drying or that doesn’t fit in with what Susan’s showing right now.” Carefully she took the canvas leaning against the box on the table and placed it along the wall.
“Can you tell me what that one’s going to be?” Carolyn eyed faint jagged lines vaguely suggesting intricacy, the tones sand colored.
“It’s one of a series of figurative paintings I’m doing right now. Neal and I took a trip into the Mojave and found just wonderful things. This one’s a fascinating plant, it looks like green-red mist on the desert sand. The tiny flowers and fine tracery of stems make me think of the human body with its connections of veins and arteries and blood vessels—the sand holding it could be human skin. I’m laying film over film—I’m looking for an opalescent glowing effect and I want the brush strokes to show. It’s still taking shape in my head and very interesting to think about. I can’t do anything more till it dries.”
“I see,” Carolyn said. Until this moment she had thought it possible that Paul was right—Val Hunter might be a dilettante. She said, “I thought all painters used an easel.”
“Never had one. A box on a table works perfectly well as long as it holds the canvas still and you have the best light on your work. I get good strong morning light through this window—it’s the best kind. Besides, any extra money, there are always so many other things more important…Neal’s been wanting to go to day camp every year and I’ve never had the money till now.” She shrugged. “I’ve been painting this way for years. He’s a boy only once.”
Carolyn surveyed the jumble of supplies on the table. “Looking at a painting, you never imagine all the things an artist has to buy. Canvas, paint, brushes, a palette—”
“No palette,” Val interrupted. “This is my version.” She reached to the end of the table under paint-stained cloths and unerringly fished out a piece of plate glass with beveled edges, the underside painted white. “I just scrape it off when I’m finished. It works beautifully, I’d never have any other kind. And except for watercolors I buy the basic ingredients and make my own paints. I really prefer to now. But there are a thousand other things you always need. I use a lot of sketch pads and good pencils; I do a lot of sketches to make color notes. And frames and turpentine and varnish. I sometimes use a palette knife—that means quantities of paint that would put a house painter to shame.” Carolyn picked up several tubes of color and examined them curiously.
“I’m still learning things about color,” Val said. “Different approaches, techniques, ways of emphasis. To this day, as well as I’ve learned the discipline of preparation and concentrating fully on a concept, sometimes an entirely new idea takes over and I have to begin all over again. And starting over costs money and time. Quality materials are so very expensive…not like when I was first learning
Similar Books
